


food is the way to the soul.

by Gon (pepperedfox)



Category: Fate/Grand Order, Fate/strange fake
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:41:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25387729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pepperedfox/pseuds/Gon
Summary: Dantes gave the barest of flinches that nearly escaped Dumas’ notice, had it not been for his honed eyes. The fire died away, the story having smothered it. “It is the fantasy you invented for me that you love,” he said, voice low. “Not the man. You’ve mixed it all up, Dumas.”“No,” Dumas said and dared to put a hand on his shoulder. He felt Dantes stiffen beneath the touch – a warning, no, the reaction of a man unused to contact after being starved of it for years – but the Avenger didn’t pull away.---Nursery Rhyme forces Dumas and Dantes into a tea party. It goes somewhat off the rails.
Relationships: Edmond Dantès | Avenger/Alexandre Dumas | False Caster
Comments: 1
Kudos: 23





	food is the way to the soul.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [poludeuces](https://archiveofourown.org/users/poludeuces/gifts).



> this is a fic for @avicebro! he wanted some juicy eddumas so here it is :^) this is a rlly cool ship, i hope this helps ppl 2 see their potential!

On the 15th of November, in the warm kitchens carved out of the Wandering Sea's sparse tunnels, a curious gathering of Servants reconvened an hour before lunch. There were the usual veterans of cuisine, such as Tamamo Cat and Emiya, who stood at the center, spotless aprons and gleaming ladles testaments to their experience. And there were the quiet newcomers -- a Berserker of the theropod kind, a vampiric countess who scowled at everyone -- huddled towards the back in deference to their teachers. But there was one Servant who straddled the line of this status quo, who dared to squeeze past the scandalized Minamoto no Raikou to snatch a bowl of freshly prepared soup and down it all in two gulps.

"I'm gonna say it," said Dumas. "What we got here isn't fit for serving."

The air in the room boiled with tension. Emiya was the first to cut it with a sharp question. “What makes you say so?”

Dumas grinned, checkered teeth bared for all to see. He offered the bowl to Minamoto with the grace of a gentleman. “Madame Minamoto, was it? You’re a mother, aren’t you? Then you of all people here will understand what I’m talking about. What’s the most important ingredient for any dish?”

“Why, it would be love wouldn’t—”

“Yes, love! You nailed it in one! Yeah, sure, it’s a cliché with so much cheese to it it’d give even a kid lactose intolerance, but there’s some truth to it. You’ve heard the devil’s in the details. Well, well, the same could be same for love. When you’re working to poison someone – or when you’re working to give them the best culinary experience of their life – you gotta be diligent about the ingredients _and_ the diner’s tastes, you hear? You!”

Dumas jabbed a finger at Tamamo Cat, who was beginning to doze off. She shot up straight as an arrow, tail bristling. “Gowaha?”

“I bet people look at you and think you’d love fish.” He barreled on without waiting for an answer. “But after having talked to you and watched you work, it’s clear as day you’re more a carrot and meat kinda gal.”

“Huh?! Y-You’re right?! Chef Emiya, this guy’s gastro-deductions are amazing…!”

Emiya wasn’t as enthusiastic as his coworker. His arms remained crossed over his chest, his mouth pursed. “What’s your point?”

“You want me to spell it out for you? Guess I gotta.” Dumas gestured at the pot. “What we’ve got is something the chefs like – but it ain’t what our customers will like. It’s got too much pizzazz and not enough home comfort. Now if I were you… let’s see what we got…”

With speed rivaling that of an Assassin, he scooped up some fresh vegetables and, with his bare hands, broke them into little pieces to drop into the soup. Emiya made a noise of disbelief. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Ah ah!” Dumas offered him a spoonful. “Say nothing until you’ve tasted this, monsieur.”

All eyes were on the pair. Emiya, stone-faced, took the spoon. Sipped.

Dumas crossed his arms over his chest.

Emiya’s frown deepened. “It’s good,” he conceded grimly. Everyone burst into excited murmurs.

Ah, Dumas would never tire of surprising people like this. He barked a laugh. “Of course it is! I’m the guy who wrote ‘ _Le grand dictionnaire de cuisine_!’ I wouldn’t have written a million pages if I didn’t know my stuff, yeah?”

“Fine, I’ll give you that much.” Emiya handed the spoon off to Tamamo Cat, who took it with her mouth. “But I’ve got another issue with the way you handle things, Dumas.”

Dumas shrugged. “Everyone’s a critic.”

“Working in the kitchen is no place for theatrics. You’ve transformed this sacred realm into a reality show with your unnecessary drama. In short…” Emiya whipped out his ladle the way a teacher would wield a pointer to signal out an unruly student. “… you’re placed on serving duty!”

* * *

And thus, Dumas was exiled.

“What an ego chefs got,” he said. “What’s the good in making a point that doesn’t stick? Someone should teach that guy presentation is a part of his job.”

The serving cart was massive, capable of holding more than fifty dishes with its tiered layers. Most Casters would have trouble managing such a huge contraption, but Dumas comfortably pushed it down the halls without any difficulty.

“They’re obsessed with mass production,” he continued to his invisible audience, punctuating his words with gestures. “Yeah, I get it, I was paid by the word after all, but you gotta take some _individuality_ into account. Yeesh.”

Well, he’ll finish this up as quickly as he can. He had no intention of playing server when his rightful place was beside his fellow chefs. Dumas glanced over the cart’s first tier, then at the map attached to the handle. The children’s rooms were closest, so he may as well do them first.

Nursery Rhyme’s room was tucked in the corner leading to the library. A little plush rabbit sat outside, decked in a top hat and waistcoat.

The book Servant was an intriguing presence for Dumas. She wasn’t a true child but the ideal of childhood, always a reflection of those who summoned her. How could someone like him not be fond of such a unique concept? She always recounted interesting tales about her past owners in return for a few sweets, which Dumas always had handy.

He knocked on her door.

Nursery Rhyme opened up. Dumas blinked in surprise.

Behind the girl loomed a tall figure, more shadow than man, with a piercing gaze that flashed a furious gold at the sight of him. There was no question as to who this was. Nursery Rhyme grabbed her companion’s pale hand and beamed up at Dumas with a smile. “You came just in time,” she declared. “Mr. Boogeyman and I are to have a tea party.”

“Yes,” said Edmond Dantes, with quiet venom, “we are occupied at the moment.”

“But there is always room for one more, for a party can grow and shrink however much it wants. Please, won’t you play?”

Was this the blissful blindness of youth? How else could she be so unaffected by the tension in the air? Dumas recalled his last few conversations with the Count – the first few were highlighted by violence; the recent ones, with stony silence. It was said madness was attempting the same method expecting different results. He ought to take heed and excuse himself.

Instead, Dumas squatted down to ruffle Nursery Rhyme’s hair with a huge grin. “Why not? Thanks, kid.”

Dantes’ eyes narrowed into slits.

The room was in the process of being decorated. Pink and purple streamers festooned the walls, accentuated by sweet-smelling flowers and the kotatsu was transformed into a makeshift tea table with a lacy tablecloth. Nursery Rhyme hummed as she set a place for Dumas. Dantes remained standing, a sulking black streak pressed against the corner.

“Here you go, Uncle Dumas. Mr. Boogeyman, the table’s ready.” Nursery Rhyme looked over her shoulder and frowned. “Come here!”

Slowly, as if it took all his effort, Dantes marched over and sat stone-faced beside Dumas. The kotatsu was so small that Dumas could almost feel Dantes’ shoulders bristling at how close they were. _Just like an angry housecat,_ thought Dumas. _That’s kinda charming._

“We are all friends here,” Nursery Rhyme said, waggling a segmented finger. “That is the first and most important rule of a tea party. No treachery, no unhappiness, none of that is allowed at the table. So, Mr. Boogeyman, will you entertain Uncle Dumas while I fetch the pastries?”

“I shall,” came the flat response.

“Then I will be off.”

With a step and a twirl, she disappeared into thin air. Dumas folded his hands on the table. “Pretty good with kids, aren’t you?”

“I was entertaining her only for a little while,” Dantes said.

“Yeah, of course. Man, when was the last time we’ve sat and talked like this? It’s been literal ages! I’ve been itching to catch up with you.”

“Writing another book, are you? I’m afraid I’ve no riveting story to sell you this time.”

Dumas made a dismissive gesture. “Bah, a good writer is a busy one. I got a thousand years’ worth of material, more than I can write in this lifetime, I guarantee you! Chaldea’s a cornucopia of the gods when it comes to inspiration. Your story’s been immortalized and cherished for all of humanity. Don’t you think it’s natural for a guy to wanna check up on his muse after all’s been said and done?”

Some of the tension lines around Dantes’ mouth smoothed out, though his eyes remained cold and sharp. What a face the Count had, though. It was the sort any hero would kill for. A strong jawline, hair as wild and white as sea foam, the way his shirt hinted at the slopes of the powerful figure below. Every detail was as Dumas remembered it, save for those eyes: golden as a tiger’s, with the pupils of a demon.

“I thought myself clear on my plans, the last we spoke.”

“You call standing outside my Chateau de Monte-Cristo clear? _Ohlala_ , you vanished like a dream without even knocking on my door. That visit broke my heart in two, drowned me in enough sorrow to flood even River Styx.”

“A dream, yes. That is what the Count of Monte Cristo ought to be. A mere phantom of revenge, who exists solely for his task and will melt away come the dawn of a new beginning.” Dantes raised his eyebrows. “Not something so… permanent as your villa.”

“Hey, what can I say? You inspired me. If it were up to me, we’d be hauling up statues in your honor.”

Dantes clicked his tongue. “Ridiculous. That’s—”

“Not to your tastes at all. Yeah, I know. But you’re a hero to the masses, y’know.” Dumas grinned. “You’re a hero to me.”

An author was finely tuned to nuances, be it in words, people, or something else entirely. Dumas’ senses are attuned to changes and he saw a subtle shift in the manner with how Dantes sat, how his shoulders released a knot of tension. “You’re wrong to think so,” he said. “I’m a wicked man.” His lips curve upwards ever-so-slightly. “Just like you.”

Dumas barked a laugh. “That so? Then let’s have a toast to wickedness! We got no alcohol, but this tea’ll do.”

A soft snort of amusement escapes Dantes. It pleased Dumas. The tea was a fragrant, bitter brew, not at all the sort a child would prefer, and he wondered if Nursery Rhyme had made plans for this little arrangement. He mixed in a sugar cube with his cup while Dantes refrained.

“When you showed up at my chateau, I thought that’d be the last I’d ever see of you,” Dumas said. “Never thought I’d run into you here, of all places.”

Dantes held his teacup with the elegance of a noble, gloved fingers fitting just right to the cup’s curves. “Are you surprised I’d answer to a Master’s call?”

“Nah, not at all. Your temperament’s just like my old man’s.”

“… what do you mean?”

“Hmm, I’m saying you got the same sense of justice burning in you. By the way, you strike me as the type who reads a lot. Am I right?”

“My entire life was at your fingertips,” Dantes answered glibly. “Surely you know me inside and out.”

“Now, that isn’t fair. I’m an expert on your exploits as the Count of Monte Cristo, but I wouldn’t say I’m the be-all-end-all guy when it comes to ‘Edmond Dantes.’ Making a hero requires some of the real thing and a hefty pinch of invention.”

Dantes sipped his tea, golden eyes aglow with a warning. “You were talking about your father.”

“So I was, so I was. His name was Thomas-Alexandre Dumas. Oh? I see the name’s familiar to you. Can’t say I’m surprised. The old man was a legend! A real terror on the battlefield! If you saw him in the thick of the fight, you’d think him Hercules reborn. The things that man accomplished…” Dumas chuckled. “He was capable of cutting down an entire army if you gave him a bridge and a saber. You wouldn’t want to make an enemy out of my father.”

“It is the viciousness you recognize.”

“The same viciousness, yeah. And the same heart.”

“You make a poor jest. Once, long ago, a heart may have beat in this shell of a man. I shall grant that much. But the moment I escaped Chateau d’If, the husk of that heart was fed to the inferno fueling my revenge.”

“Nah.”

“‘Nah?’” Dantes repeated, sharpness returning to his voice.

“You did read what I wrote, didn’t you? I know it was a hefty tale but given your threat regarding my windpipe, I thought you’d at least skim through it.”

“I read it. You embellished many parts.”

“But I got the essence right. It’s all about the essence, Dantes!” Dumas slammed down a fist. “Writing’s like cooking. Fantasy is the aromatics, you follow? But if you dump a whole shit load of it, you’ll mess up the whole palette! You—you’re the key ingredient to ‘The Count of Monte Cristo.’ Your bravery, your relentlessness, your tragedy—”

“Tragedy? _Tragedy_?” Dantes bellowed.

Overhead, the fluorescent lights flickered. The shadows gathered and the weight of their darkness pressed in on them, threatened to swallow all vision. And Dantes, who’d risen to his feet – center of the storm, electricity crackling through his wild hair – looked down on him with eyes aflame.

“Yes,” Dumas answered calmly. “Your path was a tragedy. I’ll admit it: I didn’t want you to be alone at the path’s end. That’s why… as pretentious and self-serving as it may have seemed, I wanted to pen your story.”

“So you prepared my life on a silver platter for the world to taste,” Dantes snarled. “I was made into an appetizing dish out of your misguided sense of pity. Each and every one of my secrets, bared for the people to gawk at – _that_ is your idea of walking by my side? I was not a tragedy until you transformed me into one!”

Dumas didn’t look away. The man before him burned with such intense fury that it was a wonder his eyes weren’t seared by the mere sight. How quick he was to light himself on fire; it’s a miracle he hasn’t fallen apart into ashes. And if Dumas wasn’t careful, he’ll find himself caught by those same flames. A grin tugged at his lips, unbidden.

“You say all this. Fair enough. But how about this?” Dumas raised his cup. “If you were so unhappy with what I wrote, why didn’t you make good on your promise to kill me?” No response. He rose to his feet. “Do you wanna know how my old man died, Dantes? You wanna hear the juicy details of that story?”

Dantes bared his teeth. “I didn’t ask—”

“Well, here’s the tale! Open your ears and eyes, it’s a real doozy! There was a great storm that blew his ship onto the shores of Naples, where he was greeted not by accolades and parades, but by armed holy men. My father was taken prisoner for two years, Dantes. Two years! He was starved and poisoned to the point that he lost sight in one eye and became paralyzed. My mother begged the all-mighty Emperor of the French to rescue his loyal general and what did he do? He covered his ears and turned away! Does that sound familiar?”

Those golden eyes watched him with the wariness of a threatened predator. Dumas spread out his arms to leave himself wide open to retaliation.

“And when he returned to France, what do you think happened?” he continued. “Why, as thanks for the great general Dumas’ service, they withheld the appropriate pensions from his family! Napoleon used my father and let him die in the gutter once his use came to an end. It’s a real damn shame, y’know? I was real pissed about it when I was a mouthy tyke but I moved on, even if I still had a few regrets clinging to me like burrs. That’s how life works.”

“And then you met me,” Dantes said quietly.

Dumas’ grin grew. He snapped his fingers. “And then I met you,” he affirmed. “Edmond Dantes, the unfortunate sailor thrown into jail thanks to Napoleon. A man whose father died in poverty, much like my own, but here’s the zinger! You make it out. You come back stronger than the bastards who put you in Chateau d’If! How can a guy like me not love you?”

Dantes gave the barest of flinches that nearly escaped Dumas’ notice, had it not been for his honed eyes. The fire died away, the story having smothered it. “It is the fantasy you invented for me that you love,” he said, voice low. “Not the man. You’ve mixed it all up, Dumas.”

“No,” Dumas said and dared to put a hand on his shoulder. He felt Dantes stiffen beneath the touch – a warning, no, the reaction of a man unused to contact after being starved of it for years – but the Avenger didn’t pull away. “You’re not getting me. It’s what you represent. You give hope to people suffering in silent injustice. Hell, isn’t that what an angel does? And yeah, I might not know you beyond ‘The Count of Monte Cristo,’ but hey, you weren’t the sort to open up all those years ago. So how about it? What say we get to know each other a little better?”

This was the longest Dantes permitted anyone to touch him. He was a man of the shadows with a face pale as the death he wrought, always careful to keep distance between those who still glowed with life. The last time they touched was when Dumas was first summoned and Dantes slammed him against the wall, clawed fingers digging into the hollow of his throat. This was gentleness – intimacy – that Dantes denied even the Master.

“Dumas.”

“Yeah?”

“Why did you not tell me this when we were alive?”

“Would you have listened to me?”

Dantes closed his eyes, hiding away the gold of his gaze. “And how did you know of my father’s desire for a garden?”

“Why, I went to Marseilles, of course. I asked around. Your dad was proud of you – couldn’t help but talk about the dreams you offered him.”

“Your obsession with me is incorrigible.”

“Obsession is the neurosis all writers are made of. It’s our base ingredient.”

The softest of laughs escaped from those moon-pale lips. “You have gutted my soul of all it possesses, yet I cannot make sense of you. That makes this… admiration of yours uneven, does it not?”

Ah, how like a wild animal Dantes was, baring his teeth at every kindness. And why wouldn’t he be so? The world cast him down and turned away from him, ready to forget him. He became a man determined to die with his claws deep in his betrayers’ hearts. Yet here he was – a living ghost in Chaldea, just like Dumas.

A creature who wasn’t sure where he truly belonged, anymore.

Dantes’ hand closed around Dumas’ wrist. The grip was firm and chilled, his strength hinted by how _just_ tightly he held him – enough to apply pressure, a sliver away from hurting. “I will tell you this, Dumas.” He leaned in close, mouth beside his ear, breath skimming over the skin. Excitement ran electric up Dumas’ spine. “You have all my secrets. As repayment, I will seize all of yours. Be ready for it.”

“Oh, I’ll look forward to it,” Dumas murmured.

Dantes let go. With a turn of his heel he vanished into the shadows, leaving Dumas alone with his cooling cups of tea and the memory of gold.

* * *

Nursery Rhyme kicked a big fuss at her tea party falling apart, unwilling to listen to Dumas’ patient excuses. “Now I must start all over!” she pouted. “No cake for you, Uncle Dumas, you are uninvited!”

There was nothing he could say that’d calm her down, so he took the easy way out. Bowed a little, apologized, and headed back to the kitchen. She was only one of many Servants they had to serve today and his little… talk with Dantes already set him back quite a bit. Dumas rubbed the inside of his wrist, remembering that grip. Ah, when they first reunited, Dantes would’ve broken his hand. That he didn’t could be considered progress.

His serving cart was right where he left it, the dishes still warm from the enchantments cast on their lids. He’ll have to figure out which ones were higher priority and tackle those first. The Artorias were a given, as were the Berserkers, and—

Dumas’ hand froze. Tucked between two platters was a yellowed sheet of paper, neatly folded. It looked to have been ripped out from an old book. That hadn’t been here earlier.

“Now what could this be?” Dumas mused.

_Moules marinière with Sauvignon de Touraine. Leave it outside my door._

There was no signature, only a singed spot where a cigarette was extinguished. Dumas grinned. “Too shy to ask me in person, is he?”

He tucked the note into his breast pocket, close to his heart, before going on his way. And overhead, from the dark shadows of the ceiling, a self-proclaimed angel of vengeance watched over him in silence.


End file.
